


Etchings in My Bones

by Helholden



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Doomed Relationship, F/M, Kindred Spirits, Late Night Conversations, POV Female Character, Religious Discussion, Romantic Angst, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 18:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17647475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: Love, for Lagertha, was taking a knife and carving her lover’s name in her bones—painful but beautiful, a pang to endure forever even after they left. This carving of Heahmund’s name, she knew, would be her last mark. Perhaps all along he was meant to be the deepest one. The one that carried her into the halls of her forefathers with the only longing that would make her look back.A beautiful pyre for the gods we would be, Lagertha thought.





	Etchings in My Bones

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** So I still have a thing for bastards and queens with their impossible loves. This is a real problem for me, and it has carried over into another fandom. This is my first ever _Vikings_ piece. Let Lagertha know some kind of happiness again damn it.

* * *

 

Heahmund smiled wistfully, a soft laugh echoing after it. “I would have thought you knew me better than that by now.”

 

Lagertha drew back at his jab, but she grinned all the same. “I know you better than you know me,” she countered, and Heahmund laughed again. It was a musical sound, and one she had not heard from a lover in many, many years. He turned his head on the pillow to look at her, his eyes alight with both amusement and mischief—a sign of his lingering youth. A true happiness shone in them whenever he gazed at her like this. It allowed Lagertha to let down her guard in a way she had not done in a very long time, not even with Astrid. She had always known better than to let herself get that far.

 

She was tired of fighting, though. She had been fighting for a very long time. Lagertha wanted to live, love, and laugh again—things she was able to do with Heahmund. Sometimes, of course, when people weren’t looking.

 

She was okay with that, though.

 

His expression softened into something more serious. “You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met,” he answered, “and I love you through your flaws and sins as I believe you love me—” Headmund placed a hand above her breast, the palm of his hand calloused but warm against her skin. Their eyes locked, and Lagertha’s breathing turned ragged. Her heart raced like a child’s. “—And your heart, akin to mine across the many worlds that lay between us.”

 

There it was, _that lay between us_. Present, not past. Her old gods, his Christianity. It reminded her so much of Athelstan and Ragnar. But despite his words, his actions always spoke the opposite. He never tried to change her, but he didn’t seek to. They spoke of their differences and learned new things from each other as wise folk often do. They had discussions, not arguments. Heahmund loved God, and he loved to talk of his God—but he never spoke of her damnation nor condemned her.

 

The words were, to Lagertha, reverent and inviting like a morning after fresh rainfall on farm soil. They warmed her down to her bones and drew forth a smile on her lips.

 

“I love you,” Lagertha admitted without fear—a surprise more for her than him. Her heart had known so much pain. So much betrayal. She prayed even now, though to which of their gods she knew not, that Heahmund would not be like all the rest that came before him.

 

His hand, however, was soft on her cheek. “And I, you,” he murmured.

 

She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. When she opened them, he was still staring at her. Heahmund stared at her often.

 

“And this pagan heart of mine?” Lagertha inquired with a playful tone. “Will you love that, too?” She half-feared his answer.

 

Heahmund’s eyes seemed to shine. “Yes,” he said in a whisper. “We are all God’s children alike in sin. None of us may escape it. I won’t pretend to be free of it any more than you are free of it. We are . . . imperfect creatures, fallible next to God’s infallibility and greatness.” He moved closer, his breath a hot wash over her skin. Lagertha sighed, wanting more. “I will love you, sin and all, as I was meant to.”

 

 _Meant to_. Lagertha considered the phrase. _Meant to_. It was full of many possible meanings, some of which brought pain, joy, or both—mixed together in a turmoil of delight and desire.

 

“And what are we _meant_ to do?” Lagertha challenged, never one anymore to fall for flattery.

 

“Love each other,” Heahmund answered.

 

She wanted to curse him for being so young, so foolhardy, but he wasn’t that young, was he? Heahmund was a man in his thirties, both seasoned in battle and accomplished in his life. It wasn’t in his nature, or hers for that matter, to act in such a foolish way. They were both vulnerable in this bed together, trusting one another, and accepting it should they be each other’s downfall in the end.

 

 _A beautiful pyre for the gods we would be_ , Lagertha thought. Freya would be proud.

 

Love, for Lagertha, was taking a knife and carving her lover’s name in her bones—painful but beautiful, a pang to endure forever even after they left. This carving of Heahmund’s name, she knew, would be her last mark. Perhaps all along he was meant to be the deepest one. The one that carried her into the halls of her forefathers with the only longing that would make her look back.

 

“If I don’t make it to Valhalla,” Lagertha whispered against his lips, “it is because I am looking back to see you through the fog of Midgard between us . . . ”

 

Heahmund easily looped an arm around her and pulled her closer. “There is no fog between us, Lagertha. The church says I must forsake, but that is only for my position. It is not the will of God to deny love and happiness for his children. God’s love is almighty as mine is for you . . . ”

 

“You have such a way with words,” Lagertha teased.

 

“I have a love of words, yes,” Heahmund agreed. “God gave us language to embolden our curiosity and understanding of his will. Through words, we make sense of this world—”

 

“Stop talking,” she demanded, and Heahmund obeyed. He lowered his forehead to hers, placing his lips above her own mouth, and followed the guidance of her arms as she pulled him on top of her. The candles were almost dead, the room a blackened hue of blue around them. Furs surrounded their naked forms, keeping them warm, but no warmer than what skin could do for skin. They kissed, long and passionate, until she had chased all thought of words from his head.

 

“You speak too much sometimes,” Lagertha sighed with a smile between softer kisses, “when I just want you to kiss me.” Heahmund grinned against her lips, a low laugh rumbling in his belly. His breath was so close that Lagertha reached her hand around his neck to bring that sweet mouth to hers once more.

 

“Command me, then,” Heahmund whispered back.

 

Lagertha grinned.


End file.
